


Night Photography

by LeafOnTheWind



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Photographer Peter Parker, Rape/Non-con Elements, SSBB, Self-Hatred, Serial Killers, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Whump, character death (kind of), vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: When Bucky Barnes escaped from HYDRA, it was all he could do to survive, even when he didn’t want to. He just wished that for once, he was the one to pay the price.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21
Collections: Trope is in the Air





	Night Photography

**Author's Note:**

> For SSBB's February Trope Is In The Air event. My ~randomized~ prompts were Vampire AU & angst and/or whump.
> 
> This is definitely the angstiest thing I've written. I hope you enjoy it! ❤️
> 
> CWs available in the end notes.

Bucky Barnes wakes up in a pool of blood, cool and sticky. His eyes, crusted over and dry, slowly creak open, only to flinch closed at the glare of the flickering yellow streetlight above. Red flakes off of his knuckles as he flexes his fingers. His hands slide up to his sides, the rough ground scraping as he pushes himself into a seated position and looks around.

He’s on the sidewalk, this time, out in the open. His fingertips, still wet and shining where they rested on the concrete, come up to rub at his eyes thoughtlessly.

“…Fuck.”

The dim light on the horizon is a little brighter than the halo of light pollution that shines through the night; it’s going to be morning, soon. He doesn’t have much time. He stands up.

There’s clean-up to be done.

\--

A flash and a click.

Peter brings his camera down to review the photos with a forced frown. It looks like the killer is growing bolder, but he can’t help his excitement at _finally_ being put on real jobs. Photography is the only thing that’s brought him joy since May’s death, since Ned and MJ and Harry moved away. He’s just glad the department gave him a chance, young as he was at the time, nearly straight out of high school.

On the job training, his photography, and excitement? What more could a college drop-out ask for?

Admittedly, they’d started him out with boring things, documenting missing laptops and wallets and so on; his boss probably wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to upchuck at the first sign of trouble. _But_ he was the first one on the scene the last two times, so it looks like they’ve just given up and let him have this.

They wouldn’t let him anywhere near this case if they knew what had happened to May, if they knew why he’d dropped out when he did.

One victim each time. The victims seem entirely random, though they’re always torn apart, to an extent. Well, that’s the supposition; the bodies haven’t been found, but who they are has been pieced together for the most part via security footage of nearby stores and missing persons cases. Technically the department isn’t even sure they’re dead, but the sheer amount of blood is indication enough, and the extent and patterns of the splatter...

A flash and a click. He needs to be objective. Document everything, no matter how small.

There are two silhouettes, this time. The killer clearly hadn’t had enough time to clean up as well as usual, though neither body is there; two victims, then? But one is more _tangential_ to the main pool; maybe someone who tried to save the other, only to be knocked out, or killed in a different way than usual?

Who knows.

Peter spots, for the first time, a hair. Black, about six inches long, at the “head” of one of the silhouettes. Hm. He brings the camera closer. Was this a victim or an assailant? A good Samaritan or a murderer?

A flash and a click.

\--

The first time he woke up after his death, Bucky didn’t realize anything was wrong; he just thought he was dehydrated, maybe got a little too drunk the night before if he was waking in an unfamiliar place. That is, until he opened his eyes, only to meet those of an unassuming man. Short, just the slightest bit overweight, face hidden behind thin, steel-framed glasses and a small, neutral smile, showing just a hint of too-sharp teeth.

“Hello, Asset,” the man said, his voice echoing in the cold room. “Welcome to HYDRA.”

\--

He throws his keys down to the hall table, shedding his now-ruined jacket as he goes, dropping it into the lined bin by the door just for these cases. Most of the curtains are tightly shut as always, but Bucky makes the rounds anyway. No need to risk it, even if it’s… less of a big deal for now.

The weight of his meal sits heavily in his gut, even as he uses the effects it gives him. His thick burnscars from his chains have already healed, he’d had no issues carrying the body one-handed. He should be able to go out during the day with only a minor burn for a day or two, and with copious sunscreen for maybe two weeks; he’ll be stronger, faster, more level-headed for the same period.

Then he’ll start getting thirsty. It’ll start out as a mild itching in the back of his throat, like a tiny cough that never goes away, or a hair stuck in his esophagus. Easy to ignore, if a little annoying. The longer he ignores it, and he _will_ ignore it, the worse it’ll get. The tickling will grow into a coarse, chapped burning that no amount of water will satisfy, alongside a growing inability to focus on anything other than his next meal, that pulsating, heady warmth in each and every person he passes on the street. He’ll be weaker, and slowly lose more and more self-control until—

Until he catches himself looking a little too longingly at someone’s carotid. Until he starts daydreaming about an encounter at night, maybe a mugging or a stabbing, that goes bad.

Until he locks himself in his room with the curtains and the chains. It works, but never, ever long enough.

He wishes he had the strength to die.

But no. Not for now, not when he can still help people, even if—no. He’s dealt with the body itself; now it’s time to deal with last night’s destruction here.

Bucky opens the door to his room. The chains are rent, twisted and pulled apart. They always are, the morning after, no matter how strong he makes them, no matter how much silver he coats them with. It might feel better if the scars at least lasted longer than a day, to remind him that he _tried_. The window is shattered, glass still glittering where it lies scattered on the fire escape, the curtains torn and drifting in and out with the cool breeze.

The closet creaks as he opens it to replace them. First things first, after all.

He goes through the motions of cleaning up and lets his mind wander. This is not a healthy thing for him to do, but he does it regardless. The pain it brings up is the absolute least he deserves, for what he does to people.

What was tonight’s like, he wonders. What good would he have done in the world, what incredible innovations, what joy he would have brought to someone’s life if Bucky wasn’t a worthless monster.

This last one was… too close. He’d barely managed to get the body away before a woman in scrubs turned the corner. He held his breath as she walked along the sidewalk, head down to her phone, bags under her eyes evidence of an exhausting schedule. If he had a beating heart, he’s sure it would have been in his throat.

She almost passed it by.

But then her sneaker stepped directly into one of the edges of the pool where it was cracking but still cohesive with a _squish_ , and she looked up, and she blinked. Her phone was already in her hand, and she immediately puts it to good use, stopping whatever it was she was doing and calling emergency services.

Bucky could hear the conversation; they told her to stay until people showed up, if she felt safe doing so. Somehow, she did.

There was nothing else he could do. Shit. Well, maybe this will be the time they catch him.

It’s hard to say whether he was upset or not. He still doesn’t know.

\--

Bucky is _almost_ disappointed as he disposes of the body. Maybe they’ll catch him later. _The Winter Killer_. It’s too nice a name for that part of him, not when the other, the side he’s _almost_ proud of, they called _Mayhem Man_.

Seriously. Mayhem Man.

The thing is, Bucky does _so much good_. The rates of burglary and muggings have gone _way_ down in the area he patrols. Even the overall murder rate has decreased.

Now he’s 5% of all murders on a per-month basis, which if you consider the population, is kind of incredible. And at least he makes amends to his… his victims. As best he can.

He looks through the bloodstained wallet of his latest one, pulling out identifying cards. Forty-five. Looks like no spouse, no children, or not close, at least. The man’s phone lockscreen has a young girl that looks like she has the same nose; maybe a daughter, maybe a niece.

Some quick searching on his victim’s phone shows it’s his niece. Good. He sets up a college fund for her, to be released as a randomized scholarship when she starts putting in applications a few years down the line.

Does he have the funds for this? No, not at all. He’s a nocturnal monster who can’t be trusted around people, who needs to take off or quit every several weeks, who _drinks human blood_ , for goodness’ sake. But he _has_ learned a trick or two for moving other peoples’ funds around in his efforts to survive a little more under-the-table than is strictly legal.

It is strictly necessary if he wants to get by, and he makes sure to only take from people who can afford it, who are already moving things around in a less-than-legal way. If a little goes missing on its way to the Cayman Islands, or through an inconspicuous laundering service, it’s not like they’ll report it.

Plus, it makes him feel more Robin Hood and less Jack the Ripper, which… he’ll take what he can get, there.

He doesn’t keep much for himself, mostly donating to the friends and families of the people he murders. The apartment is falling apart, with a landlord who takes cash with no questions and no repairs, thank you very much. The heater went out last winter, but it’s July now, so that’s a problem to deal with later, if at all. Since his change, temperature has been… muted, and it’s not like he has grocery costs, though he does stock up on bloody cuts of meat and butcher’s blood in an attempt to delay his cravings. They seem to work a little, but not nearly enough.

Really, the only things he spends his ill-gotten gains on for himself are the never-ending supply of thick, dark curtains and thick, cold chains of silver that bite into his skin.

He tugs the newly re-installed curtains tightly shut, lays on his threadbare mattress, and doesn’t dream.

\--

All of Bucky’s dreams are memories.

His memories blur together, like layers of blood-drenched gauze dragging against each other, folding and moving and forming new patterns from their shared elements. Death, of course. Torture. The burning of silver knives, silver collars, silver chains; the burning of the sun; the burning of hot blood dripping down his parched throat.

Relief and disgust.

\--

When the sun is down and the grating sounds of Bucky’s neighbors are starting to become painful, he grits his teeth and dons his costume, if it can be called that. The black leather chafes as he tightens the straps, the seam where the sleeve he modified after his escape meets the original top scratching against his scars. Good.

He tightens the straps just a little more until they dig into his ribcage; the filtering mask and goggles get the same treatment, pulling against his jaw and the bridge of his nose. Technically the mask was unnecessary right now, his control is as good as it ever gets right after a meal, but it’s another reminder and another barrier between him and others, if need be.

The last strap affixing a small pistol, small-caliber and loaded with silver bullets cinches in place directly between his shoulderblades. Just in case.

Bucky will never, ever go back to them. No matter what.

\--

Fists fly through the darkness, lenses glinting in the moonlight, as Bucky takes the man who he’d seen pull a knife on another and, grabbing his collar, thrusts him one-handed against the wall of one of the buildings framing the alleyway. The man’s head bangs roughly against the brick, dark with the kind of filth that grows slowly with years of neglect, and lets out a groan. It’s cut off when Bucky’s gloved fist impacts first his face then his collarbone once, twice, until there is a crack and a shout of pain, and he lets the man fall to the cracked concrete. He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Hopefully he’ll take his convalescence to go home and rethink his life.

The almost-victim is long gone, of course. Good; one less temptation. He taps his earpiece to open the link to the police scanner back up, listening with one ear to the official channel, with the other, the area around him. He exits the alleyway and continues walking along the sidewalk.

It’s not long before he hears another altercation; he’s roaming a rough area, and it’s a Saturday, maybe half an hour after most bars close. Drunkards coming home and the people taking advantage of them.

This sounds different, though. What Bucky had thought was a fight was just a younger man yelling into his phone, a large rectangular bag hanging open at his side, warm curly hair glinting in the streetlight he’s pacing under.

“I don’t care, I—yes, sure, I’ll waive it, I’m already—let me get a word in edgewise, I’m already here!” A pause. “Yes, I’m sure. Look, I know it’s a long shot, but we found something _different_ this time! I don’t want to—”

Bucky abruptly notices he is not the only one watching the—photographer? He thinks he recognizes that bag shape—under the light, and his body moves. His muscles coil and release, bounding through the shadows without thought, and suddenly he’s next to the man on the phone. The best way to stop a crime is to prevent it in the first place, after all. This is what Bucky tells himself.

It feels odd to _try_ to be noticed. It’s the antithesis of everything he’s tried to do over the years; to fade into the background, to do as much good with as little attention as possible. He’d never stuck around long enough to give a name, so the press had dubbed him Mayhem Man.

The local anchors never claimed to be good at giving vigilante names.

The moment Peter notices him, he jerks upright, cutting himself off mid-sentence, the grip on his phone white-knuckled. Then he gets a look at his all-black outfit, the goggles masking Bucky’s eyes, and he _relaxes_. “Oh my god, you scared me,” he breathes out, before continuing to speak into his phone. “Yeah, no, I’m okay, it was just Mayhem Man. Hey, that’s perfect, actually,” dark eyes bear into his, contemplating, before breaking into a mischievous grin. “Can’t be more protected than with our city’s dear defender, could I? …As I said, I’m _already here, yelling won’t—_ I will _see you tomorrow._ Goodn—” the man’s expression softens. “I promise. Good _night_.” There is no click, but he has clearly hung up as he tucks the contraption away.

“Hey there, Mayhem Man. Can I call you May—no, best not.” The man continues, smile strained but present, “What brings a guy like you to a place like this?”

Bucky hesitates. He doesn’t like people having anything they might recognize him with, if he needed to leave his apartment out of costume.

…When was the last time he actually spoke to another being?

His voice is coarse from disuse. “You should go home.”

“And after you so gallantly decided to protect me?” the man continues. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did. There’s a _reason_ I was on the phone for so long, you know. The name’s Peter Parker.” He holds out a hand, but must see the hesitation on Bucky’s face and drops it. “Don’t worry, I know who _you_ are. You’re putting us out of a job, down at the precinct. I’m betting you’re here for the murder too, huh?”

Bucky abruptly realizes where he is, the dark spot on the concrete nearby. It’s not surprising; his deaths are always near where he’s staying, but it is jarring to see this man, eyes ingenue-wide looking up at him and telling him he’s here for the murder. Why?

He doesn’t realize he’s asked this aloud until the man—Peter—begins to tap the rectangular bag by his hip. “I’m a photographer,” he says, as if that answers the question. Clarification doesn’t come, so he tilts his head slightly, a prompt to continue. “Crime photography, specifically. It’s my day job, too. I was the one who documented this morning’s scene, another one of the Winter murders.” Bucky tenses, but Peter continues blithely. “There was the usual pool of blood, slight drag marks and droplets that lead a path but disappear at solid walls, that sort of thing that are not _typical_ but not unheard of, but _this_ time, I saw something _new_.” Peter leans in as if imparting a secret, his grin wide and his teeth bared viciously. It’s disconcerting how much Bucky likes it, given the circumstances. “I found a _hair_. Black. Maybe six inches long. Winter _never_ leaves evidence like that.”

If Bucky’s heart was capable of beating, it would have stopped. As it was, he simply froze, his breath still in his lungs, until not even the slight breeze ruffled a strand of his six and a half inch long, black hair. Oh no.

“I know, right! And it gets _weirder_.”

Can hair be used to identify someone positively? He doesn’t think so, it’s just appearance, but he knows DNA identification is moving at a frightening rate.

“I photographed it, as I do, because it’s my _job_ , but when I developed it… nothing!”

They need to suspect someone and match it, right? They can’t just… have a strand and see what the person looks like. And nobody _knows_ what he looks like anyway, so… he should be fine.

“I mean, there was a _dent_ , almost, in the pool where I _know_ it was, but nothing! So weird.”

He shouldn’t even be in any database but a missing person’s cold case, and his landlord didn’t have his name anywhere. Who’d believe him if he claimed his clearly fit and visibly young tenant was a hundred and something, anyway? Bucky’s fine. He’s _fine_.

Inch by inch, Bucky relaxes and responds, “…Weird.”

“You don’t talk much, huh. Makes sense. I don’t remember hearing any reports about you talking to, well, _anyone_. Trying to keep your identity secret? I feel that.” Something flashes across his expression, but it’s gone before Bucky is able to try to understand what it means. “Besides, half the department is out for your head! …Actually, now that I think about it, I _may_ have just given your exact location to my boss at the precinct. We’ll have to move fast then.”

Peter goes to grab at Bucky’s gloved hand and he, not expecting it, lets him pull towards the spot not too far away where he killed that poor man last night. His adam’s apple bobs and all he can taste is bile and the man’s bitter flesh between his teeth.

He wishes he had the courage to die, to save men like that.

But then again… he’d saved people tonight that he couldn’t have, if he gave up. Bucky can feel the warmth of Peter’s hand slowly seeping through the thin leather, a blooming geranium. He’d saved Peter, tonight.

Peter pulls at his hand and Bucky follows.

\--

It appears that Peter Parker, photographer, has a habit of getting into trouble. He’s bold, too bold for his own good. The only reason he wasn’t dead twelve times over is because Bucky’s always within hearing distance when he yells. A coincidence. His hearing is better than usual for now.

He ignores that it’s been weeks, and his senses, while still stronger than a human’s, are already beginning to stumble. It’s a relief when they do. His neighbors are _insufferable_.

“…Aren’t you worried?” Bucky asks one night, stopping only a pickpocket this time and letting them go with a nonverbal warning.

Peter looks up at him, eyes wide and playful despite the danger he always seems to be in. “Why would I be?”

“…I’m not…”

“Sure, I’m in danger, sometimes. But I yell, and you come. Haven’t failed me yet! My own personal friendly neighborhood Mayhem Man!” He must see Bucky’s reaction to the name, and continues with a laugh, “I know, it’s a pretty terrible name. Wouldn’t’ve happened if you’d spoken to non-zero people before me. Say, is there something you’d rather be called? I can try to change it! I have friends in press!” He jokingly brings up his camera to take a photograph and Bucky moves automatically.

“ _NO_ ,” he says, his mechanical arm coming up to grip the lens, covering it entirely, only to hear a loud _crack_.

Silence falls as they both process what has happened. Bucky loosens his grip, immediately remorseful, cringing with every _clink_ of broken glass on the sidewalk as the shattered lens drops from the dented housing.

“I… I didn’t…”

Peter is speechless. This thing was _expensive_ , dammit. He lifts it up to inspect the damage; it’s mostly just to the external lens, which is replaceable if pricey, but there’s a crack right down the center farther in. “Fuck, how much would this cost to replace…?” he mutters to himself.

“I’m so sorry, it was automatic, I—I’ll pay for its replacement, just let me know—shit, I—”

Bucky feels his shoulders pull in. God, he ruins everything he touches. He should never have stuck around, should have just beaten up the asshole trying something and _left_ , should have done that _every time_ , if he stays he’s just going to mess up again and maybe next time it’ll be _Peter_ he grabs and shatters into pieces.

An image of Peter flashes in his mind’s eye. Peter lying on the concrete in a pool of blood like his most recent murder, like the woman before him, and the woman before her, and the fucking _child_ before her, and all those that his _selfishness_ has killed, his eyes glassy, without that spark of joy and _light_ , a dull brown set into sunken sockets and wan, waxy skin like a sculpture, devoid of everything that made Peter _Peter_.

The much younger man lets out a nervous chuckle, still gazing into the broken lens, his broken reflection staring back at him. “Not gonna lie, you scared me a little, but this was clearly an accident. I certainly can’t afford to replace this whole thing for now,” he grimaces slightly, “but… you said you could help? I don’t like accepting charity, but given that this _is_ at least _partly_ your fault, that’d be amazing. And hey, now I know: no pictures. Can do. Is it the whole… vigilante… thing?” he asks, waving his arms generally towards Bucky. “Or is it more a personal thing?”

How could he do this? How could he even consider _allowing_ himself this? He _knows_ what he does, he _destroys_ , and he does it far too well. He needs to go. He needs to go _now_ , before he—he nods. “Anything you need.” Bucky is so weak and wanting. He’ll devour every scrap he’s given until there’s nothing left. “And… both.”

“Well then, no harm done, right? Though I suppose there’s no real reason for me to be out now that I won’t be able to take any pics until this bad boy gets back up and running,” he says, gesturing with his camera before gingerly tucking it into its case. He looks up through his lashes, almost shy, and asks, “Walk me home?”

Bucky does.

\--

The quiet of a darkroom has always been calming to Peter. He loves night, too, but darkrooms are pretty much the only places he can see true blackness, not a hint of light pollution, in the city. More than that, they’re places that he can retreat to, when things get a bit _much_ , when the voices around him grate until it feels like his skin is being scratched off, when the bright lights of the office send a spike of agony through his retinas, when a band of tension wraps around his skull and his chest and _squeezes_.

And it’s for work, so nobody can fault him for taking the occasional break in here.

Unfortunately, his camera’s out of commission for now, though the vigilante lived up to his promise and sent him over, frankly, far too much for the replacement. He’ll return the remainder the next time he sees him. Maybe this time he’ll even take off his goggles, or give him some _hint_ of contact information so he doesn’t have to go there and shout.

Peter grins at the thought, taking photographs from the pool of chemicals and gently pinning them up to dry. Would he be as taciturn and stoic over text? He’d bet the vigilante would he be the kind of person to sign his name at the end of each text. He giggles at the thought of the poor bastard gritting his teeth and writing _Mayhem Man_ in his signature.

It really is a terrible name.

\--

An hour later, the last batch of photos he has are done, and Peter is sorting them by professional and personal, then by case for the former and by subject for the latter.

He may have told Mayhem Man a little white lie about being out there. The first time, his reasoning was absolutely true; there is nothing he wouldn’t do to get the Winter Killer off the streets. _Nobody_ should have to suffer like he did, losing May like that. He still remembers identifying the body, mangled as it was, bloated and decaying from the time she—it—spent in the river, and he still can’t afford therapy, so yeah. That’s fun. He’s looking forward to unpacking that after the bastard who did it is behind bars or dead.

Anyway, the first time was the truth. Afterwards, yeah there were things he wanted photographed, but they were nonessential at best and thin excuses at worst. Yet the vigilante kept saving him. A blush steals across his cheeks at the thought. At this point, he’s purposefully endangering himself so he can get him to talk to him again. That can _not_ be healthy.

The last few photos are for the Oc case, so he sets them aside, only to reveal one last picture. It’s nearly all just a familiar palm clad in black leather. Peter blinks in surprise. He must have taken it accidentally. The vigilante hates having pictures of himself around, apparently, so he shouldn’t look too closely. He should throw it out.

He _should_ throw it out. Instead, he puts it to the side.

\--

“We’re almost due to another Winter death.”

Bucky lays next to Peter on the rooftop of an apartment building with appalling security, and doesn’t respond beyond a hum, attempting dismissal. Time, as always, moves forward, and Peter isn’t wrong; it’s almost time for him to lock himself away again.

“The rate of violent crime around here has dropped a ton, since they started. I wonder if it’s correlation or causation.”

 _Causation_ , he thinks, but not the way Peter imagines. 

“It’s a shit price to pay.” Bucky doesn’t disagree. He breathes in as little as possible, now when everyone—when _Peter_ smells so enticing. “...You’ve been here a while, too. Have you ever tried to find Winter? To bring them in?”

He shifts uncomfortably and can’t answer.

“Yeah, I figured.”

\--

The photograph sits at his desk for a full twenty weeks, weeks he spent going about his business, visiting sketchy areas at night in hopes of seeing his vigilante, and taking incredible photographs for work and for art, before the shift of a pile of papers topples over and brings it back to the forefront of his mind. After that, it’s no time at all before his need to see takes over. It’s been _months_ , and the man is very handsome, even with most of his face obscured. Peter wonders what he looks like underneath, if he’d let Peter loosen those straps and peel it off and—not work-appropriate thoughts. Later thoughts.

Either way, he pulls it out from underneath the paperwork he’d been attempting to distract himself with, and inspects it. Most of the picture is Mayhem Man’s palm, of course, the fingers only inches away from the camera, just moments before it was broken. Between the thumb and forefinger, though, he has a glimpse of that hot-as-hell torso, cinched into skintight leather and _damn_ if that doesn’t do it for him. He trails up the view, admiring the lines of his body, up his high neck, the damn mask, until he gets to—

Nothing.

It takes a moment for Peter to comprehend what he’s seeing, a furrow forming between his brows.

He knows the man’s there, can see the suit and accessories leading up to where his face _should_ be, but…

Oh.

Oh no.

Events quickly realign in his mind, whirring quickly and snapping into place.

The night they met.

His aversion to photographs.

The black hair in the blood. The black hair on his head.

But that means—no. It can’t—

He’s _nice_ to Peter, how could he…?

No. This is… this is conjecture. He has no _proof_. He—

He’d asked about the Winter Killer before, he’d—did he lie?

He needs to talk to Mayhem Man.

The name doesn’t sound so silly anymore.

\--

It’s been about that amount of time, Bucky thinks. It doesn’t help that Peter is _so_ tempting.

As his thirst grows over the weeks, he becomes more and less sensitive. Less sensitive to sounds, to sight, to touch, even. He can see his attention and comprehension dropping with time, right on schedule. He feels like Charlie Gordon, cycling over and over and over, just hoping one day people will put flowers on his grave. For the first time in a long time, he thinks there might be someone who might.

At this point, he can still walk around, but it’s a near thing. The moment sun touches him, he’ll blister; every human he passes, he feels more than sees the pulsing of their carotid, the flush of their cheeks and feels a pull in his gut, his heart, his throat that feels like sandpaper.

It’s time to chain himself up again. He compulsively pulls the curtains closed more tightly as if they’ll provide the people outside with any more protection, even protection as effective as a cobweb; he goes through his usual routine as night begins to fall, but hesitates.

In an extra step, he takes a pen and begins to write on an old newspaper, ink heavy and denting the flimsy page as he goes. This is the first time he’s left a note, in case he manages to succeed; this is the first time he’s considered… not wanting to. It’s an apology and an explanation, should someone realize he’s gone. He wonders how long it’d take.

The landlord would come first, he thinks, to find why he hadn’t paid his rent. Maybe a neighbor, but it’s unlikely they’d peg the smell of decay as anything unusual.

He wonders if the landlord will call the police, or whether he’ll just quietly dispose of everything. It wouldn’t be good publicity, knowing he’d been housing a murderer like him. Police presence here wouldn’t turn out well for many of the residents, either.

At this point, he can’t go out to deliver anything, regardless. He really should have done this days ago, but Peter just kept finding trouble, kept… visiting him. Reaching out. Hopefully he figures out that his _Mayhem Man_ is gone before he goes and gets himself killed. The thought of Peter lying lifeless on the concrete, dead by Bucky’s own hand, is a well-worn one, and it comes easily even as his sanity thins.

It’s a rush to bind himself before the sun sets fully. He slides his mask in place. As the new, thicker chains _click_ into place, his skin begins to smoke, knives stabbing into his skin as it weakens him. He pulls, and they don’t give; he lets himself hope, and he lets the thirst, red and violent and feral as it is, overtake him.

\--

Unfortunately, the only way that Peter knows to find his vigilante—the possible _serial murderer_ who possibly _killed his Aunt_ —is to get himself into trouble. It’s all he can do to keep himself still for the rest of the work day, his bones itching to _move_ , to do _something_ about this _thing_.

Should he tell his boss? He hadn’t believed him about the hair that wasn’t until he’d marched him down to evidence and shoved the baggie in his face, and even then he tried to blame it on his beloved camera, or impurities in the chemical baths. It’s unlikely he’ll believe this, even _with_ photographed evidence; he’ll try to blame it on improper development, or artistic photos Peter forgot about.

Like he’d ever mess up like that. Photography is his _life_.

He rearranges his desk more in those few hours than he has in his entire tenure of years.

The moment the end of his shift comes around, Peter leaps from his desk, grabbing his jacket and waving off the shouts of concern from his co-workers. He _never_ leaves on time, lingering over the delicate processes he loves so much, or bugging the people around him, draping himself over their cubicle walls, leaving cryptic sticky notes, moving everything slightly to the left. Not today.

He power-walks to the nearest subway station and makes his way to the light pole where they’d first met.

\--

…This may have been poorly thought out. The sun hasn’t even set yet, and neither the Mayhem Man nor the Winter Killer have done _anything_ during the day. There are lots of variations in everything else, but neither one has ever come out without the moon high and clear, not a trace of sunset lingering.

Even so, he gets there and pauses.

What is he _doing_?

Mayhem Man is his _friend_ , but if he’s right, he’s also—

There’s never been conclusive evidence one way or another. _You’re freaking out, Peter, calm down, it’s all fine, peachy keen_. _Maybe he was knocked out trying to help the victim!_

And hey, it’s always possible that this is a, a whole _group_ of people who can’t be photographed. Maybe he’ll know someone Peter can talk to, or the others in the area.

What, like everyone who can’t be photographed knows everyone else? Racist. Is that racist? He doesn’t know. This line of thinking is not helping. _God,_ he just needs to see him, to talk to him, to hear that he didn’t kill all those people, didn’t kill _May._

Time passes, and night begins to fall. Peter feels a shiver run up his spine, despite the still-warm air that is the lingering caress of summer. He breathes in that sweet, sweet hot-garbage smell that’s so pervasive everywhere in the city this time of year. It’s strangely comforting. Grounding.

Peter opens his eyes to see a dark blue sky, just starting to reveal the glitter of the strongest stars, those that can survive the light pollution of the city, past the unsteady streetlight. The faintest line of deep crimson is smeared along the horizon where he can see it between buildings.

He’s not sure when he closed them.

He hears footsteps behind him and turns to meet the gaze of someone who is clearly desperate. It’s earlier than usual, Peter thinks. Perhaps it’s just because he usually doesn’t come here this early.

The man—no, the _boy_ in front of him swallows heavily, clearly working himself up to something. His clothes are threadbare and worn in layers and layers, his nails uneven and slightly tattered with grime packed beneath them in a dark line. Peter smiles pityingly, without thought, but that seems to make up the boy’s mind, his expression firming into righteous anger.

His hand is in his sweatshirt pocket, pushing out to emulate a gun as he stammers through an attempted threat, but Peter knows what those look like. He’d have to, in his line of work, not to mention the innumerable trips down to the evidence locker, or the training he’d gone through to be able to carry his own.

He’s never used it. He’s never had to, with his fairy vigilante godmother.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so complacent.

Even so, this kid—and he _is_ a kid, he can’t be more than fourteen—is trying to threaten him, and unlike so many others, he really doesn’t want Mayhem Man to hurt him. Instead of shouting for help, Peter heaves a sigh and tells him, “Look, kid, I know that’s not a real gun. And… this isn’t a great idea, generally. You know where you are. What if _I’m_ armed, hm? Do you really want to start this?”

“A…are you?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Either way, I could beat you in a fight. I may not look like much, but I’m quite the scrapper. Plus…” Peter drags out as he reaches into his pocket, the boy tensing as he does, only to reveal his badge. He flashes it and puts it right back where it was; sometimes it was useful to defuse low-stakes instances like this, but he does _not_ want it getting around. It’s come in handy more than once, looking like a guileless little idiot.

“If you _really_ want to start this, you can. Just keep in mind that this will just cause you unnecessary pain.” Peter’s face softens. “Seriously kid, why are you doing this? Hell, people don’t even carry that much cash around anymore. And if they _do_ , they’re not the kind of person you want the attention of. It’s certainly not the kind of attention you need.”

“I can take care of myself!” he says, bravado his only shield.

“Of course you can, kid.”

“And I’m not a kid, dammit!”

“Okay, alright. That’s fine, I gotcha.” Peter puts his hands in his pockets, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen he always has available. If the kid did decide to jump him, he’d be a little late to respond, but he’d be fine. Really, though, night is fully here now. He still needs to talk to Mayhem Man, so this kid needs to go.

“Go home. If you need a job, let me know and I can help you.” He tears out the top sheet from the pad, scribbling down his personal contact information, ignoring the fact that there is _no way_ he’s old enough to work. He’ll find something under the table. “I won’t be able to do everything, but I can help you, if you want it.” He holds it out, an offering for a kid who clearly needs something. A job won’t solve everything, probably not even a lot, but it’s all he can do right now.

The kid is doing his best to stay angry, but his body language already conveys he’s given up. Whether he takes the offer or not, it’s there for him to grasp. The boy steps forward, his false bravado lending aggression to movements that Peter _knows_ are just for self-comfort, he reaches out and—

Several things happen at once.

The light above them flickers out, though the area is still lit however dimly by adjacent lights and the occasional shopfront. The kid, trying to reach Peter, instead flinches back, startled.

Then a great deal of motion. Blackness flashes across his vision, blocking out everything; nails dig into his neck, drawing a shout of surprise and pain; a line of fire splatters across Peter’s face and chest.

Then it’s gone—or it isn’t, but the person, the _child_ who was reaching out to Peter after trying so pathetically to intimidate him is lying in front of him in a pool of blood. His throat is torn out, his eyes wide with terror and agony as he chokes on air and his own blood spilling out of him, his hands coming up to try pointlessly to hold his gaping trachea together, his chest heaving and limbs curling up and straightening out, instinctively trying to scrabble away from nothing, an awful whistle coming from his neck as his mouth forms words that will never be heard. There are no tears before the motion ends. It lasts forever; it stops in an instant, with depressing finality.

Peter can’t seem to breathe. His eyes tear up and his hands shake as he goes to reach for his phone, but his fingers can’t seem to understand what they need to do. He drops his phone and, still trembling, goes to pick it up. One corner is red from the still-expanding pool, and Peter skitters away, lungs suddenly heaving uncontrollably as he dials emergency services, backing away as quickly as he can without falling over or dropping it again.

Once he’s a bit away, he turns into what seems to be a brick wall.

Then a tearing, _pain_ , and nothing.

\--

Bucky Barnes wakes up in a pool of blood, cool and sticky. His eyes, crusted over and dry, slowly creak open, only to flinch closed at the glare of the flickering yellow streetlight above. Red flakes off of his hands as he flexes his fingers. His hands slide up to his sides, the rough ground scraping as he pushes himself into a seated position and looks around.

He’s on the sidewalk, out in the open. He can’t help a guilty smile that at least he’ll be able to see Peter again, but ruthlessly suppresses it as he looks around for his latest victim. It’s the middle of the night, but his eyes are back to peak condition, and he can see just as well as at twilight. Just a little ways away, he sees not one but _two_ bodies.

Shit. The cops will think he’s changing his MO. Which he has, but through no ~~fault~~ desire of his own. Fortunately, it’s earlier than he usually comes out of his blood-drunk reverie, the moon still high and bright in the velvet sky, perhaps because he had two victims this time. He sighs and stands to begin cleanup.

The closer body is no more than a child. Most people are, to Bucky, but this one… He died scared. He leans down and closes his eyes, before turning to the other and freezing.

A keening whine cuts through the ambient noise of the city, blaring like a siren as Bucky looks down at the unseeing eyes of Peter Parker.

No. No no no this cannot—no. _No._ Not Peter. _Anyone_ but Peter, he’s killed so many it doesn’t even matter, but _not Peter._

Bucky Barnes has broken many, many promises he’s made. Many of them were not necessarily his fault— _‘Till the end of the line, punk_ —others were coerced from him in the first place— _Ready to comply—_ and still more were simply put to the side after the death of the other party— _I’ll protect you, Natalia_. This is the only one he’s made to himself, and it takes no thought at all to burn it to the ground, scorching and salting the earth behind it.

Shaking, he turns Peter’s head to look at him and makes his choice, gently opening Peter’s mouth. His teeth, still extended from his feeding, drag up his own forearm, his newly-acquired blood dripping freely along the grit still indented in his skin, down his hand and dripping carefully between Peter’s blue lips, staining them red in a mockery of life. Preternaturally healing, he redoes this several times until he can no longer hear the domestic dispute two blocks away, the enthusiastic sex across the street, the silence of Peter’s heart not beating.

Then he picks up Peter’s body from the red, _red **too red**_ ground, and disappears.

The other one doesn’t matter. Bucky getting caught doesn’t matter.

Peter matters.

\--

Nobody blinks twice at Bucky bodily carrying an unconscious man covered in blood back to his apartment, which is concerning, but makes things easier right now. He can sense his own blood beginning to work in Peter ( _thank god or the devil or whoever that he woke in time, that he wasn’t too late_ ) as he bounds up the final few steps, slamming his door shut and locking it tightly.

There’s no time for his usual meditative routine, the curtains in his room shredded as they always are, so he just shuts the door and lays Peter out on the ragged couch. He won’t care, when he wakes. At least, Bucky thinks so.

He doesn’t remember much from his first wake. It was all a haze of rage and violence and ecstasy as he tore into the beings HYDRA had provided, drinking and eating and fucking until he was coated in crimson blood and he’d had his fill. Bucky doesn’t like thinking about who the people HYDRA had sacrificed to him were; it’s nearly as torturous as what happened afterwards.

A rushed trip to the refrigerator shows exactly what he expects: next to nothing. Fortunately, what he does have is high in iron and good for delaying his cravings a little. Hopefully it’ll temper Peter’s initial frenzy. He’s gathering as much as he can when his senses, dulled slightly from Peter’s turning, go haywire. Peter is awake.

He turns to get back to him as quickly as possible, but Peter is already in the kitchen, inches from him, staring hungrily at the meat and animal blood in his arms. Knowing how quickly one of his kind can go violent in this state, he thrusts the largest chunk of meat at Peter, who takes it and devours it messily, the juices dripping down his chin, his teeth still growing. The same happens with the rest of the meat, and the few bloodbags Bucky had stored.

Yet Peter is still ravenous.

Once he’s emptied the last bag, he turns his eyes, still that warm, precious brown, to Bucky’s neck, his shoulders where his skin is visible at the neckline, widened with the tears of the thin fabric, and Bucky abruptly feels vulnerable. This is the first person who’s been _able_ to hurt him since he’d escaped. Even in his most vulnerable state, chained in his room, the worst someone could do would be to open the curtains, or to shoot a silver bullet into his skull, and those aren’t worst-cases at all, right now.

Nervous, he shifts his weight, and that seems to be the trigger.

His head bangs roughly against the freezer door, Peter gripping his hair hard enough to hurt, hard enough to scalp a human, yanking his head back and tearing his shirt from the neck all the way down, revealing his torso. Peter doesn’t care.

Bucky’s breaths, unnecessary as they are, are coming in quick pants. If his heart could beat, it would be beating rabbit-quick; as it can’t, he has to satisfy himself with a whimper of pain-not-pain as he realizes Peter might kill him, here. Not permanently, his silver weaponry is mostly in the other room, and he has no real wood furniture—it’s too expensive. But he might drain him dry, take and take and take until Bucky can’t lift his own limbs, until he won’t be able to explain what’s going on to a panicked and lost Peter. That’s bad enough, but the thought of being trapped in his body like that again after all these years of playing at _free_ sends true terror through him. He tries to bring up his hands between them, but he’s not fast enough, not strong enough against a newborn, and just manages to scrabble along arms that seem to be carved of stone.

Peter growls in satisfaction, ignorant of the thoughts sprinting through Bucky’s head, and _bites_ deep into his shoulder, shattering his clavicle and ripping the muscles supporting his neck nearly clean through, blood spilling wastefully down his bared chest and soaking into his remaining clothing as it drips to the linoleum. Bucky’s left arm falls limp, any support it had gone.

Even as Bucky grits his teeth against the pain he knew was coming, Peter’s beautiful eyes, rapturous, roll back into their sockets as he lets out a low moan of ecstasy, the first flood of beautiful red heat pouring down his throat and his front, wetting what little was untouched by Bucky’s earlier mistake.

He pulls harder at Bucky’s head, lolling to the side with no way of keeping itself upright, extending the tear in his neck; Bucky is just glad he hadn’t gone for the spine, where he might have torn his head off completely. Bucky can feel himself getting weaker as he’s drained, his body fruitlessly doing its best to heal itself from the ongoing trauma.

Peter presses even closer, close enough that Bucky couldn’t breathe if he’d wanted to, and begins to rut against his thigh like a wild beast, nothing careful or gentle, nothing _Peter_ in it. His whimpers and moans of pleasure turn to cries as Peter comes in his pants. It’s not enough; of course it’s not. It won’t be for a while, Bucky thinks, though his memory is hazy at best.

The cries revert to growls as Peter continues moving, still hard, unwilling to stop drinking from Bucky. One hand comes down, growing in strength as he siphons it from the older man, and claws at his pants, destroying them, only to move to Bucky’s. He doesn’t know his own strength and wouldn’t care if he did; deep furrows of flesh are gouged out at Bucky’s hips and thighs as Peter one-handedly removes all barriers between them.

What little blood Bucky has to spare is rushing south against his will even as tears pool in his eyes, staining the whole world red, dripping down his cheeks in streaks to join the rest. He knows Peter will hate him for this. He’s made very clear his position on the Winter Killer these past weeks.

That doesn’t matter now; Peter doesn’t see anything but blood and sex. As if in response, Peter reaches between the two of them, retreating to leave just enough space to grip both of their cocks and stroke too fast and too hard for Bucky, already drawn, to feel any sort of pleasure.

He’s starting to get light-headed and can feel himself growing soft even as Peter continues and comes again with a splash, coating their chests. The floor is covered in gore, Bucky’s feet slipping as he tries to readjust, to keep himself upright. There’s a moment of relief as Peter lets go of his hair, though he couldn’t move his head if he tried, now. It doesn’t last long until his head is shoved to the side, his open wound barely trickling now, revealing unblemished skin quickly torn by another mauling bite. It’s a miracle his trachea is still intact. He can’t think of anything to say that would matter.

It doesn’t matter what he says, what he does. Peter still isn’t done.

Bucky’s legs are unsteady, still standing mainly through force of will and the lack of room for him to collapse, pressed against the appliance as he is. Nevertheless, they give out, and Peter’s fingers dig into his hips, breaking skin once more to add to the many injuries his beaten, abused body is trying to heal, slower and slower.

Peter lifts up, and Bucky has a split second to realize what’s about to happen before he is yanked down onto Peter’s still-hard cock. He lets out a low, shaking shriek of agony with what little air is left in his lungs, shaking and sobbing in pain as Peter thrusts up into his unprepared hole, mercilessly crushing him against the appliance. It isn’t long before blood is leaking from there, too, the sensitive skin shredded and torn.

His body is so weak at this point, Peter’s so strong, that he’s not even surprised when he hears a sickening _crack_ as his spine breaks, his legs falling entirely limp in Peter’s grasp. Bucky lets out a sob in relief when it does.

And still, Peter drinks and fucks and drinks and comes and drinks and drinks and comes _again_ and keeps fucking into his numb, limp, _used_ body as he drinks and drinks and _drinks_ —

Bucky finally blacks out, and it is a blessing.

\--

It’s a surprise to Bucky when he wakes up in his apartment. He breathes in, and out. With his spotty memories of his rebirth and Peter’s before he fell unconscious, he’d truly expected to wake up in a morgue at best, or back with HYDRA at worst. He is covered with one of his ratty bedsheets, a shitty shroud to be sure, but he recognizes the couch spring pushing into his hip.

Ah, he can feel his hip. That’s good.

His hearing is duller than he can ever remember it being, unable to process more than his own breathing lightly pushing at his shroud. His eyelids are leaden and despite his best efforts, he can’t open them. A finger twitches, but no more. Bucky feels the pull of madness at the edge of his mind, but the edges are worn smooth right now, lacking the energy even for that.

This might be the closest he’s ever come to a second death. Time stretches as he lays there, unmoving, and he wonders how long he was unconscious, how long he’s been there. His thoughts drift, unmoored. He’s so thirsty. Has he missed a rent payment yet? Red. Peter. HYDRA. What will they do with his body? Will he be cremated, incinerated until his final death? Or perhaps they’ll bury him in a casket to be encased for ever, unable to regain his strength.

Maybe he’ll be buried in one of those new eco-burials. Bucky thinks he’d like that, to be curled into a fetal position as they plant a seed above him, letting the roots unfurl around his neck, curl under his arms and through his legs, forming a chrysalis that will never crack open, a perpetual _almost_. That would be a perfect end, he thinks, or perhaps a middle, to be surrounded by green in his _almost_ after so much red, red, _red_.

…No, he thinks. Too expensive. In all likelihood, they’ll just label him another John Doe, and do whatever they do with John Does.

He’s not sure how long he lies there before he begins to hear a muffled sound, as though shouting underwater from far away. It’s not clear whether it’s real or whether it’s a hallucination; Bucky is so, so tired.

The cloth against his face begins to slide away, to be replaced by the cold air around him. The shouting sounds closer, now, though he still can’t make it out. He can’t make anything out. He needs—

 _Blood_ , he almost-mouths.

Time passes. It could be a moment, it could be a month as he lingers in his fugue, drifting in the cold with the spring digging its point into his back.

He feels firm, cold hands press into his lips, and he parts them obediently to let a trickle of cold, sticky fluid drip down his tongue, coating his teeth and the back of his throat. He swallows automatically, and manages to whimper a little when those hands draw away, only to sigh in relief when they return.

Hands, blood, swallow, breathe.

Bucky starts to breathe again, and manages to crack his eyes open. His eyelids are sand and grit against them, but he does it anyway, desperate to know what happened.

There was… red. There always is, with him. Red and pain and… there was a lot of pain, actually. It’s been a while since something other than his own hand, or those chains forged by them, had managed to hurt him, but he’d been… helpless against Peter.

 _Peter_.

Bucky bolts upright, or tries to. He doesn’t make it far before his abused muscles protest. The wounds on his neck are barely closed, and his hasty action tears them open again to leak blood he cannot afford. He brings his hand up as best he can to collect what he’s losing, desperately sweeping it up and bringing it to his mouth, sucking the blood off his fingers only to reach back and repeat the action.

He hears a gasp, and Bucky only turns his head this time, leaning it over the armrest behind him to gaze at the pale, furious face of Peter Parker, newborn, his hands almost the color they were when he was alive, dripping with the blood collected in his palms.

“…You were feeding me.”

A drop slips between Peter’s fingers and falls to the ground with a tiny sound, his stride not slowing even as his confusion and anger show themselves plainly in the weight of his steps, the twist of his brow, the tenseness of his jaw.

“You need blood,” he says, kneeling beside him and tipping his hands forward to Bucky’s bloody lips, disgusted, “and I need answers.”

Bucky drinks, growing more ambular with each drop. He’s not going to be anywhere near full, but he should be functional, soon.

Maybe that’s more dangerous; the madness is still there, and growing stronger as he does. It takes much but not all of his strength to lift up a hand and push Peter’s away.

He doesn’t speak.

“Did you hear me, _Mayhem Man_?” Peter spits mockingly at his murderer, his _Aunt’s_ murderer.

Nothing.

Peter laughs bitterly. “Is that even you? Or have I just been—been _friends_ with a fucking _murderer_ this whole time, who—who took advantage of me to, what, cover his tracks?”

There’s nothing Bucky can say to defend himself. There never has been. “I’m a monster.”

“Yeah, yeah no _fucking_ duh.” Bucky closes his eyes again, hearing Peter storm to the kitchen, the squelching of his shoes indicating he hasn’t cleaned up. He probably wasn’t unconscious that long, then. Bucky knows far too well the timeline for the deterioration of blood.

The telltale clanking of his water pipes and the rush that accompanies it tells him Peter is washing his hands. Washing his own blood, recycled twice already, off his hands. He wonders if the claws have come in yet.

Peter’s footsteps bring him back towards Bucky, where he pauses, crouching.

“Look at me,” he says. Bucky can’t do it. “ _Look at me,_ ” Peter screams. “ _What did you do to me?”_

Blood, so precious a resource right now, gathers in his eyes again, opening to stare at the cracked, peeling paint on his ceiling. Bucky’s voice cracks to match as he croaks out, “I killed you.”

“Then what the _fuck_ am I? What are you? What did you—” he cuts himself off, red streaks streaming down his cheeks. Bucky reaches out to wipe them away, but Peter flinches violently back. “ _Don’t_ touch me.”

It takes him a while to answer, Peter staring daggers into him.

“You know what I am,” he says eventually, “What you are now.”

Something in Peter _breaks_.

“Why did you save me?” He let Bucky pick what he meant. Why did he save him, the first time they met? The second? The third, fourth?

Why did he save him from death, when the Winter Killer has slaughtered dozens of others?

“I…” Bucky can’t help but laugh. It’s a hysterical thing, sharp and humorless. “I’m selfish. That’s why.”

“You saved me because… you’re selfish.” Peter’s breaths begin to shallow. It’s a habit, held over from when he was alive. He’ll get over it soon. “You… you _bastard_. How could—how could you do this to me?!”

Bucky has no answers.

Suddenly quiet, Peter continues, trembling. “Am I going to have to…”

“No.”

Thoroughly confused, the younger man waits.

“I… you need blood, yes,” he elaborates, “But if you need to, you can… you can feed from me. We can make sure you never get close to another frenzy, ever.”

“…What?”

“I made you into a monster to save your life. I won’t make you into a killer, too.” That burden, he would take on himself. This specific one is nothing new.

And this way… “You’re binding me to you.” Peter huffs in disbelief, an almost-laugh. “I either stay with you for—for who knows how long, _forever_ , or I die, or I become a murderer like _you_. What _choice_ is that?” The venom in the words as he spits them burns into Bucky’s mind. He will remember this. Remember another life he’s ruined.

“It’s the only choice you have left.”

Peter whirls around, pacing across the worn, stained rug, pulling at his hair with new strength, gnashing his elongated teeth, biting into his bottom lip until it’s close to falling off.

He faces Bucky, still lying on the couch half-delirious. “I will _never_ be like you.”

Bucky can’t help the thrill of joy at his declaration, and does his best to keep it from showing on his face as Peter crumples into himself, sobbing even as he stands and flees the room.

“No, you won’t.”

Peter will never go hungry, if he can help it. For himself, Bucky would do almost anything to avoid thinking about what he is, about finding victims, about doing what must be done for him to survive. He’d more than half-wished to die since he was turned. For Peter…

He lets his teeth grow and the madness edge nearer, eyeing the spilled blood painting the kitchen tile and soaking into the rug from Peter’s turning, from his bringing handfuls of life to Bucky, staining his skin. Peter is gone again, the water running in the kitchen as Peter scrubs at his hands, washing away a slick sheen only he can see.

For Peter, Bucky will let himself be very, very thirsty.

**Author's Note:**

> CWs:   
> Self-hatred & suicidal ideation are suffused throughout the story. The latter specifically refers to periodic attempts at self-starvation.   
> There is a single, fairly short rape scene, beginning at "Peter presses even closer" and ending at "Bucky finally blacks out, and it is a blessing."
> 
> If you like, come join us on the MCU thirst [Discord server](https://discord.gg/6wFsB2f) that hosted this event! ❤️


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